Came dawn, with a noise of birds and afterwards a little sleep, and then
day, and heavy eyes opened again, and the sound of frying and the smell
of coffee recalled our actors to the stage. Mrs. Pope was past her worst
despair; always the morning brings courage and a clearer grasp of
things, and she could face the world with plans shaped subconsciously
during those last healing moments of slumber.
Breakfast was difficult, but not impossible. Mr. Pope loomed like a
thundercloud, but Marjorie pleaded a headache very wisely, and was taken
a sympathetic cup of tea. The pseudo-twins scented trouble, but Theodore
was heedless and over-full of an entertaining noise made by a moorhen as
it dived in the ornamental water that morning. You could make it
practically _sotto voce_, and it amused Syd. He seemed to think the
_Times_ opaque to such small sounds, and learnt better only to be
dismissed underfed and ignominiously from the table to meditate upon the
imperfections of his soul in the schoolroom. There for a time he was
silent, and then presently became audible again, playing with a ball
and, presumably, Marjorie's tennis racquet.
Directly she could disentangle herself from breakfast Mrs. Pope, with
all her plans acute, went up to the girls' room. She found her daughter
dressing in a leisurely and meditative manner. She shut the door almost
confidentially. "Marjorie," she said, "I want you to tell me all about
this."
"I thought I heard father telling you," said Marjorie.
"He was too indignant," said Mrs. Pope, "to explain clearly. You see,
Marjorie"--she paused before her effort--"he knows things--about this
Professor Trafford."
"What things?" asked Marjorie, turning sharply.
"I don't know, my dear--and I can't imagine."
She looked out of the window, aware of Marjorie's entirely distrustful
scrutiny.
"I don't believe it," said Marjorie.
"Don't believe what, dear?"
"Whatever he says."
"I wish I didn't," said Mrs. Pope, and turned. "Oh, Madge," she cried,
"you cannot imagine how all this distresses me! I cannot--I cannot
conceive how you came to be in such a position! Surely honour----! Think
of Mr. Magnet, how good and patient he has been! You don't know that
man. You don't know all he is, and all that it means to a girl. He is
good and honourable and--pure. He is kindness itself. It seemed to me
that you were to be so happy--rich, honoured."
She was overcome by a rush of emotion; she turned to the bed and sat
down.
"_There!_" she said desolately. "It's all ruined, shattered, gone."
Marjorie tried not to feel that her mother was right.
"If father hadn't interfered," she said weakly.
"Oh, don't, my dear, speak so coldly of your father! You don't know what
he has to put up with. You don't know his troubles and anxieties--all
this wretched business." She paused, and her face became portentous.
"Marjorie, do you know if these railways go on as they are going he may
have to _eat into his capital_ this year. Just think of that, and the
worry he has! And this last shame and anxiety!"
Her voice broke again. Marjorie listened with an expression that was
almost sullen.
"But what is it," she asked, "that father knows about Mr. Trafford?"
"I don't know, dear. I don't know. But it's something that matters--that
makes it all different."
"Well, may I speak to Mr. Trafford before he leaves Buryhamstreet?"
"My dear! Never see him, dear--never think of him again! Your father
would not dream----Some day, Marjorie, you will rejoice--you will want
to thank your father on your bended knees that he saved you from the
clutches of this man...."
"I won't believe anything about Mr. Trafford," she said slowly, "until I
know----"
She left the sentence incomplete.
She made her declaration abruptly. "I love Mr. Trafford," she said, with
a catch in her voice, "and I don't love Mr. Magnet."
Mrs. Pope received this like one who is suddenly stabbed. She sat still
as if overwhelmed, one hand pressed to her side and her eyes closed.
Then she said, as if she gasped involuntarily--
"It's too dreadful! Marjorie," she said, "I want to ask you to do
something. After all, a mother has _some_ claim. Will you wait just a
little. Will you promise me to do nothing--nothing, I mean, to commit
you--until your father has been able to make inquiries. Don't _see_ him
for a little while. Very soon you'll be one-and-twenty, and then perhaps
things may be different. If he cares for you, and you for him, a little
separation won't matter.... Until your father has inquired...."
"Mother," said Marjorie, "I can't----"
Mrs. Pope drew in the air sharply between her teeth, as if in agony.
"But, mother----Mother, I _must_ let Mr. Trafford know that I'm not to
see him. I _can't_ suddenly cease.... If I could see him once----"
"Don't!" said Mrs. Pope, in a hollow voice.
Marjorie began weeping. "He'd not understand," she said. "If I might
just speak to him!"
"Not alone, Marjorie."